


Pretty Little Boy

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-02
Updated: 2007-07-02
Packaged: 2019-01-19 23:06:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12420123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: She’s seen pictures of them before, pictures snapped in secret, of a handsome, pouting Draco, and a fair-haired woman so lovely it hurts to look at her.





	Pretty Little Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

**Pretty Little Boy by lilydarling**

The Manor is large and forbidding, and possesses an eerie, sinister chill. She’s surprised her mother brought her here; surprised how easily this dark glamour smothers her honesty; surprised such wicked secrets lurk behind such an elegant faÃ§ade.

Little eyes bore into her, and she’s even more surprised to see a child untainted by the corruption and sin that cloud this family. His gaze is magnetic, and coarse, and _mesmerizing_ –and she finds that it’s hard to tear her eyes away from him.

He’s a pretty little boy, all blonde hair and light eyes. Which isn’t surprising, really, because his mother’s even prettier.

She eyes him critically as he hides behind a pale, blonde beauty–her aunt Narcissa, she gathers–, his face buried in her robes. He’s a charming child, and he peeks around her legs before grinning nervously and ducking his head.

"He gets his smile from his mother," her mother once told her; that crooked twist of his lips, those playful dimples carved into his cheeks. He’ll grow up something wicked, but while it lasts, the innocence he radiates nearly blinds her. 

He glances at her again, nothing more than a flash of grey and inquiry. His eyes are like quicksilver, lightening fast and absurdly dramatic, and with his heavy fringe of lashes, the aristocratic quality of his beauty is so outstanding she’s almost envious.

She’s seen pictures of them before, pictures snapped in secret, of a handsome, pouting Draco, and a fair-haired woman so lovely it hurts to look at her.

She looks up at her mother, the resemblance between the two women so startling it renders her speechless. Her mother’s long, dark hair frames her forlorn expression, and her sister stares back at her with profound yearning, and just a little disdain.

The little boy with locks of silver looks on curiously, not quite ignorant, but still painfully unaware. He tugs on Narcissa’s robes, questions swimming in his eyes.

“Mummy, who are you looking at?”� He stares at the dark-haired woman across from his mother, eyes narrowed thoughtfully, searching.

“Darling,”� she informs him, bending down to look at him, “This is my sister, your aunt, Andromeda.”�

Her mother looks as though it’s hurting her to smile, and as her eyes fashion tears, she crouches down, and takes this naive child in her arms.

“I’m so pleased to have met you, Draco,”� she whispers to him, and her voice cracks a little. 

Draco, too young to understand, pats his aunt on the back comfortingly. “Have you a boo-boo, Auntie?”� he asks quite seriously, frowning as Andromeda lets out a tearful laugh. “My mummy will make it better, you know,”� he informs her very matter-of-factly.

She smiles fondly at this enchanting, innocent boy, and turns to his mother, who looks back at her, hand clasped over her mouth, struggling to quell her tears.

“Will you make it better, Narcissa?”� her mother asks very quietly, very bitterly.

Narcissa lets out a sad little sound, and looks at her sister desperately.

“I don’t know I can,”� she replies, taking a deep, shuddering breath and looking at the ceiling. “ _The matter is out of my hands._ ”�

Her mother stares, a little bit incredulous, but not at all surprised.

“You will _always_ have a choice, Narcissa,”� her mother quietly explains, as if speaking to a very ignorant child. “When they snatch your baby’s innocence, _you’ll see._ ”�

By now, neither her mother nor his are entirely unconvinced, and her aunt looks more lost than ever.

She grabs her mother’s hand as she closes her eyes and composes herself, trying to forget the atrocity of it all. Andromeda squeezes her hand painfully, and she’s so glad for the shove back into reality, because nothing seems quite _real_ anymore. She feels trapped in some horrible nightmare, only there’s no waking up because she’s in deeper than God, deeper than daddy, deeper than all her little friends at school. Little Draco’s a martyr for their family’s sins, and this nasty little incident’s just of a cursory glance of what’s to come. 

Mother and daughter turn to leave, hearts sullied and tarnished and tainted and _soiled_ , just like her father’s blood, creeping through her veins.

“So, that’s the end, then?”� Narcissa shouts after them, outraged and hopeless, glaring at Andromeda. Her mother nods through a slight trickle of tears, and Narcissa picks up Draco–now looking extremely wary and confused–, and clings to him tightly.

She glances at the woman destroying him, and can't quite repress the wild stab of envy that pierces her. Such _cruel_ beauty, so unfair such a woman should wield it.

She hears a very faint, “Mummy, what’s wrong?”� as they storm from the Manor, but then the doors are closed and his voice is gone, and her mother has lost something precious.

Anguish rips through her as she looks up back at the Manor, and she hates _everything_ her mother comes from.

A bright blonde head peers out of a window, face pressed glumly to the glass, and for a _moment_ she thinks she can save him–, but then Narcissa pulls him back, and with one last hungry glance, he turns his back on her.

It really isn’t _fair_ for a boy like him to be so _pretty_ , she decides finally, as they trek slowly down stone steps, the wind tearing at their mangled souls, wrenching the pieces of their hearts apart. 

But with ancestry like his, it’s expected.


End file.
